


insomnia only falls on the deepest sleepers

by thethirdmuse



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fic Exchange, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Short, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1608287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethirdmuse/pseuds/thethirdmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the thought of Steve, small Steve with gaunt cheeks but quick smiles. The thought of that Steve knowing who Bucky had become disgusted him</p><p>Bucky returns, for the most part. Steve doesn't intend to ever let go of him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	insomnia only falls on the deepest sleepers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheTruthofMasks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTruthofMasks/gifts).



> For my dear, dear friend who fangirled with me until I had no other choice but to write this.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t sleep much. Never really did, in fact. Before the serum, before he left, before _everything_ , he used to lie awake and listen to the worrying rattle in Steve’s chest. 

Steve breathes easier these days, and it would come as a comfort to Bucky if he didn’t have so many other things keeping him up at night.

He remembers slowly. Spends hours living in a shabby apartment, laughing at the pencil smudges on Steve’s cheeks. Shudders at the sound of a gun being cocked. Wakes up before the sun rises at the base. Ignores the satisfied looks of Hydra scientists as they clean the blood off his mechanical fingers. Nothing comes back all at once-he gets flashes of the person he was and even still, flashes of the person he was molded into.

He doesn’t really feel like ‘Bucky’. At least, not the Bucky Steve wants. But he doesn’t feel like the Winter Soldier either.

What he does feel is sickened. He’s adjusted to the weight of the arm, but he can’t quite stand the sight of metal instead of flesh. Doesn’t like the way he can easily break bones with the left fingers, but still delicately hold a pencil in the right. He’s killed people with this-this _piece of machinery_. And the thought of Steve, small Steve with gaunt cheeks but quick smiles. Steve who wasn’t afraid to stand up to bullies despite his fragile bones, who was the best friend Bucky could’ve asked for. The thought of that Steve knowing who Bucky had become disgusted him. Left him writhing and uncomfortable in his skin.

He doesn’t sleep much because the weight of that would have him waking up gasping every few hours anyway. When he does sleep, it’s because of the utter exhaustion he forces upon himself. And even when that happens, he doesn’t stay asleep for long.

Steve always enters his room quietly, feet light despite the body they have to maneuver. He climbs into the bed, hands reaching for Bucky’s thrashing body. He’s always warm now, a perk of the serum, and his fingers feel like fire when they brush the cold sweat off Bucky’s forehead.

“It’s me, Buck,” he whispers, pulling Bucky against his chest. “It’s me. You’re fine. I promise.”

Some nights, he doesn’t say much else. Just repeats the same few words over and over until Bucky’s chest rises and falls at the same time as his. Other nights, Steve talks for hours. About old Brooklyn. About new Brooklyn. About how damn expensive drawing supplies are nowadays. About the way he used to draw Bucky from memory. About all the stupid things Bucky did when they were both teenagers. About all the stupid things he did when they were teenagers that Bucky had to help him with.

Some nights, Steve doesn’t say a thing at all. He’ll press his hand against Bucky’s shoulder, fingers splayed, with his palm in the middle of skin and metal, in between tense muscle and cold lines. And Bucky understands. Steve doesn’t need words to say that even with everything he’s done, he’s still _Bucky_. This arm is still a part of him, even if it doesn’t look like it.

Slowly, Bucky’s stomach begins to settle. His nerves start to unravel. He still grabs Steve with his right hand, still avoids the kitchen and the knives, still has nightmares. But they’re different. Instead of dreams about the people he’s hurt-he dreams about the scrawny kid that Steve used to be. Worries about protecting him and then opens his eyes to arms encircling his shoulders that are solid enough to protect him now.

He isn’t quite sure he can love Steve the same-not the quiet, secretive desire to protect him. Not the pining and wishful thinking. But when Steve begins to press soft kisses to his temples and unabashedly sketches Bucky’s profile as he eats breakfast, Bucky begins to think that loving him a completely different way wouldn’t be so bad.

The fall around each in a familiar way. Make adjustments where adjustments are needed.

Steve does the monotonous things- cuts Bucky’s hair at the kitchen counter, buys Bucky’s toothpaste at the supermarket, teaches him to use the brand-new toaster that has some sort of bagel setting.

Bucky learns how to cup Steve’s face in both hands and lean up to kiss him. Learns how to make Steve’s favorite breakfast (with the toaster). Eventually, he even learns how to use his arms -both of them- to hold onto Steve when their breathing is shallow and heartbeats uneven and Steve is devastatingly _keening_ against Bucky's throat.

He’s not okay. He has moments of anger, and long periods of hatred. Days when he doesn’t even let Steve touch him, and others when he doesn’t even allow him to let go. He struggles to trust himself to not hurt anyone, and he struggles trying to convince the world that he wouldn’t harm a fly.

But he feels alive most days. Begins to feel the weight of ‘Bucky’ comfortably in his veins. Feels more joy than he does pain, and more love than both combined. And he begins to think that perhaps, he feels more human now than he has ever before.


End file.
